Helen Hanson - Dark Pool (16 page)

Maggie picked her way into the kitchen while trying to catch another glimpse of Fyodor without being too obvious. She slammed a hip into the doorjamb.

“Trav, will you get a vase for me? These need some water.”

“Sure.” He snagged a vase from a lower cabinet. “So, Fyodor, what do you do?”

“I own a security company.”

Maggie took Fyodor by the arm to spare him a younger-brother interrogation. “I want you to meet our father.” She grimaced at Travis. “I have to warn you, he has Alzheimer’s. Some days are better than others.”

“And how is he today?” Fyodor’s concern appeared genuine.

Travis said, “Depends on who you ask.” Maggie scowled at him as he filled the vase and placed it on the counter.

She stuffed the fistful of flower stems into the vase. A beautiful mix from asters to zinnias, including lilies of the Nile, delphiniums, Shasta daises, Queen Anne’s lace, and roses. Red ones.

“These are from your garden, aren’t they?”

“Having moved in this week, I can hardly claim it as my garden, but yes, these grow in my yard.”

Modest. Maggie liked that in a man. Especially when his chest was made of granite.

She touched his elbow. “My father’s in here.”

He stayed by her side on the way into the family room. Her father sat on the couch where he’d been earlier.

“Daddy, I’d like you to meet Fyodor Umanov. He’s our new neighbor.”

“Mr. Fender, it’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” Fyodor held out his hand, and her father’s soapstone rock landed in his palm.

“You have a very smooth rock, sir.”

Maggie retrieved the soapstone and put it back in her father’s hand. “We’re going to dinner.”

“Don’t ride on the motorcycle.” Her father lifted his face to Fyodor. “It’s too dangerous.”

“Daddy, he doesn’t own a motorcycle.” She kissed his cheek. “I’ll see you later.”

As they left the room, she leaned in to Fyodor. “Some days are better than others. You ready?”

“Yes, we have reservations at—”

Maggie’s stomach clenched. She hadn’t considered the restaurant. What if it’s Osakane? She couldn’t face that punk Peter. What if they went to that happy pearl place where they think she’s a whacko and wouldn’t hire her if she were the last waitress in—

“—Le Horizons. Does French food suit you?”

As the husky maître d’ led them through the restaurant, Maggie scanned the wait staff for familiar faces. He left them with menus at an outdoor table overlooking the Pacific. Fortunately, she hadn’t see anyone she knew and started to relax.

Fyodor studied the menu. “Would you care for some wine?”

She settled against the back of the chair and took in the view. “That sounds lovely.”

They chatted about the entrees and settled on salmon, duck, and a Napa Pinot Noir. The waiter filled their first glasses and left them to enjoy the light onshore breeze. The sun glistened at the edge of the world.

“You know, Maggie, I didn’t think you would agree to have dinner with me.”

Maggie coughed down a mouthful of wine. “You didn’t.” She dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “Why is that?”

“I am new to the neighborhood. And, your week has not been light. Sometimes our burdens weigh us to a point of inaction.” He raised his glass to her. “I’m pleased that was not the case.”

She was the lucky one. “I’m surprised you asked me after all the drama.”

“Your family was attacked,” Fyodor said. “In both cases.”

“Tell that to Carl Pinkerton.”

“The bicyclist. Yes. He likes to gossip. Emotion wells in him for all the wrong reasons.”

Warm, keen, and soulful—his brown eyes captivated her attention. Like a Russian bear at rest. “I’ve never properly thanked you for helping when the woman attacked Travis.”

“I would have removed the lady from your yard, but your brother’s approach was kinder.” A smile played across his face. “Of course his methods only worked after you pinned her to the lawn.”

Maggie’s face heated. “It’s not a habit of mine.” A laugh escaped from her lips.

Fyodor joined her. “I’m sorry. I don’t make fun of your trouble.”

“No, you’re fine.” She sipped her wine. “I must have been quite a sight.”

“I like a girl who sticks up for herself.” He leaned in and tested her bicep. “But please be gentle with me.”

As she reached for his wrist, she giggled. But he grasped her hand instead, squeezing it long and tenderly before releasing her. Deep in her belly, a swarm of butterflies took wing. She swirled the wine around the inside of her glass. Lines trailed back to the red pool. “So what kind of security work does your company do?”

As if on a picnic, the man looked completely at ease. “Personal. For executives, celebrities, dignitaries. Anyone with a concern for safety.”

“You’re a body guard?”

An eyebrow arched. “That’s a bit of a simplification, but, yes. I can perform those services as well.”

Wow. He could protect her body anytime. She bet he had his own tuxedo.

“Your father. How long has he had Alzheimer’s?”

“Probably longer than we’ve realized.” Maggie leaned her head toward him. “Maybe five or six years.”

“He is quite young for such a disease.”

“Everyone is quite young for such a disease.”

Fyodor nodded.

The waiter returned with their meals. While the food smelled fabulous, Maggie wanted to gestate the wonderful sensation in her belly. Like living on a cloud, immune to the weight of gravity.

Beyond his striking good looks, Fyodor was a sweet and sincere man. Considerate toward her confused father, friendly to her jailbird brother—he was even kind to her inquisitive mutts. Dating hadn’t been much of a priority for her. Life was complicated enough without involving strangers. He likely knew all the stories about her family, yet that didn’t cause him concern. Thoughtful, handsome men didn’t exactly fall from her patch of sky. He was simply the nicest surprise to come her way in a long time. So even if it was awkward, uncomfortable, or occasionally scary, getting to know Fyodor was worth the effort. What did she have to lose?

“Amazing, huh?” Kurt laid the cigar across its coffin on the desk while Spenser dusted his person.

“I’m speechless.” Spencer reclaimed his cigar and puffed it back to life.

“Not sure how far I’ll get, but I’m making a list of questions. Anything you want to add, let’s get it on paper.”

Kurt knew all of Spencer’s questions, starting with, where’s the money? But working this end of the pay scale, clients expected drama. A clever magician suspended his audience in awe.

“He just called you up and invited you over to his house for tea?” Spencer sat on the edge of his desk.

“I contacted him when I first signed on for this case. Seemed like the decent thing to do.”

“Decent. Yeah, that must have gotten to him.” He wiped his face. “Do you know how many reporters would kill for this opportunity?”

“And a couple of former clients, no doubt. I’m heading to his place tomorrow.” Kurt reveled in the turnabout on this hunt. The game came to him. Ever the conversationalist, when it came to the investigation, O’Mara was no longer chatty. He’d told the SEC nothing of value, and even knowing about Kurt’s investigation for Thornton’s group, he still wanted to talk.

Spencer knocked a plug of ash into the ashtray. “I wish I could go with you, but I’m guessing it’s a private meeting. Any idea what he wants?”

“None. But you can’t tell anyone until after our meeting.”

“News will hit the street before you make it to his driveway.”

“I thought it was a prank call.”

Spencer spit some smoke laughing. “I’ll bet you did.”

“He wouldn’t tell me anything over the phone.” Kurt didn’t want to add any opinions that he couldn’t substantiate. Always under promise. Then it’s easier to deliver. He propped his feet on the ottoman. “But I’m absolutely intrigued.”

“You and me both.” Spencer got up and started to pace. “I can play to the balcony after this meeting.”

“We need to hear what he says before we make too many plans. The SEC will be interested in my conversation.”

“With the media camped at his place, your visit will be national news. Hell, international.”

Kurt’s thoughts reeled. “I have a legal obligation to assist the federal investigation. Assuming I learn anything of value.”

“You thinking about wearing a wire?”

“I expect to be frisked by somebody. But he called me. I want to give him every reason to trust me.”

Spencer swiveled toward him. “Why you? Why not the guys from the SEC? O’Mara must want something from you.”

“I can’t fathom what that might be. I’m hoping to be his father confessor, help him unburden his troubled soul.”

“As long as he also unburdens his bank accounts. I’m good.” He took another puff.

“Maybe he’s sick. Or dying. He wouldn’t be the first to want some absolution.”

“Only God himself could save his soul.”

Kurt said, “Isn’t that always the case?”

Spencer seemed to study the end of his cigar. A white cloud of smoke erupted from his lips. “When you show up, the reporters will be in a frenzy. Have you considered giving a statement?”

Considered. Written. Rehearsed. Delivered before an adoring nation on prime time. The future woman of his dreams saw the broadcast and called him with a proposal. “I thought I’d let you make that call. I don’t want to do anything to jeopardize my conversation with O’Mara.”

“No.” He spoke through the cigar. “Don’t want to flush that bird too soon.”

For Spencer Thornton, it was the textbook definition of dilemma. A media opportunity Oprah herself couldn’t conjure, versus a private invitation to the golden goose’s nest. A Dominican cloud accumulated around his face while he pondered the matter. His tanned brow furrowed as the RPM of his mental gears approached redline.

Kurt thought Spencer might pop a vein.

Spencer stalked the floor with the precision of a caged jaguar. He spun on a heel. “Here’s what you’re going to do.” He stabbed toward Kurt with his cigar. “Say nothing on the way in about your visit with O’Mara. No Comment. No Comment. No Comment. Remind them that you work for me. And the other investors in our group, of course. That’s it.”

It didn’t mesh with Kurt’s fantasy version, but it made better public relations sense. “What about on my way out?”

“Take that up with O’Mara, but if he does confide anything to you, he probably won’t want the press to hear it. Hell, he could stand on his porch and shout if he wanted them to know anything.”

“Agreed,” Kurt said. “It might be wise to tell the press that Mr. O’Mara was polite, sociable—”

Spencer laughed. “You’ve been studying the little bastard.”

“It helps when you’re chasing a man’s secrets.”

“I hope you’re a distance runner.” A box on his desk buzzed. “Because unless he gives you a map to the pot of gold, you’re going to need the stamina.” He picked up a phone. “Give me five.” He pushed a button on the phone.

Kurt understood that the meeting was now over. While Spencer had plenty of other business, Kurt’s all-consuming mission was to track O’Mara and the money. He rose, stretching his back to take out a few kinks. The long days behind a desk made him feel compacted. But the meeting tomorrow would make it all worthwhile.

Spencer left the cigar in the ashtray. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this call.” His smile opened like a game-show curtain. “Your news was better than advertised.”

“Some information is best delivered in person.”

He clapped Kurt’s back like a coach after the winning field goal. “I’m leaving for New York tonight. Call me tomorrow right after your meeting.”

“Will do.” Kurt headed for the exit.

“Oh, hey. What time are you meeting Patty?”

“Eleven. Sharp.”

Kurt opened the door and said goodbye to the receptionist on his way toward the elevator. Some days made up for others. He stepped into the hallway with a buoyancy he hadn’t felt since his success on the D.C. case.

He lit the lobby button and hummed for most of the thirty-seven-floor trip. The humming stopped when an attractive brunette entered the elevator on the sixth floor. Given his mood, suppressing a grin that didn’t scare her required concentration.

Kurt held the elevator door and let the lady exit first, then broke for the glorious weather waiting outside. The day shone with particular zeal on Front Street. He decided to walk the ten blocks back to his office. He normally exercised daily, but since the rah-rah at the Fairmont, he barely took time for meals and sleep. Today, he’d earned a leisurely promenade.

He zig-zagged the city blocks in a northwesterly pattern toward the Transamerica Pyramid. The sidewalk bustle kept his thoughts from landing. He clipped along in time with the throb of the streets.

From behind, an ambulance howled. It sped past him and stopped on the street a few yards away at the intersection of a lesser roadway. The double doors opened at the back when he came near. He stared at the muzzle of a gun.

“Mr. Meyers. Get in before someone gets hurt.”

The flight instinct won over a foolish notion to fight. Before he could move, a firm hand from behind shoved him toward the ambulance. From inside, someone hauled him the rest of the way. The doors slammed behind him, and the ambulance scurried down the road.

His eyes adjusted to the dark, and he made out the faces of two men. His stomach contents lurched to this throat. “What the hell do you want?” It sounded tougher than he felt.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Meyers. I have a present for you from Mr. Penniski.”

His veins chilled. He recognized the thugs from the Fairmont.

“When you meet Mr. O’Mara tomorrow—”

“But I don’t have—”

“We know of your meeting, Mr. Meyers. No use denying it. You take this ink pen with you. You click the ballpoint out to record, and click it back inside to turn off. You can even write with it while it is recording.” He polished the pen with a handkerchief and dropped it into Kurt’s pocket.